You don't know me
by Bookjunk
Summary: One-shot. Ella defends her choices. Warning: this is pretty depressing.


**You don't know me**

Another night; another John. This one was a talker. Ella despised the talkers. It was as if they were trying to convince themselves that they were better than other Johns because they didn't have sex with her. Talkers were the worst.

It's still better, Ella reminded herself. And it was. It was still better than before. Not by much, but it _was_ better. Tonight was just a bad night.

It wasn't the talking itself that was so upsetting: she'd rather talk than have sex any day. The problem was the topic. Ella didn't like to talk about herself. She avoided thinking about herself as much as possible, so she didn't appreciate it when strangers attempted to analyse her life. Especially because they had no fucking idea what they were talking about.

They had money, cars, homes, jobs, families worth a damn. They had no right making assumptions, but they always did. About low self-esteem, laziness, sluttiness, a misspent youth, a weak character. Fuck the lot of them. They hadn't lived her life.

Yes, she was a prostitute. Yes, she had a son she could barely take care of. Yes, she was an addict. Yes, she had made choices and they had landed her here. What the Johns didn't – _couldn't_ – understand was that the other options were worse.

She could have stayed with her parents. She could have finished secondary school. Gone to college. Gotten a job. Met a nice man. Had a happy family. Sure. That sounded great, right? Except every night since she had been twelve her father had snuck into her bedroom. You can guess the rest.

Leaving home at fourteen had been the better option and she didn't regret it for a second. Even now. This was better than that.

Well, what about the baby? Surely, she was not going to argue that having Christian had been the best choice? Bringing a child into her life had not been a choice at all. For a while, it had looked like her life was turning around. She'd met a man. She hadn't been in love, but he had been nice. He'd had a job, until he didn't. Then he hadn't been nice anymore. Eventually, he'd gone to jail.

By then, Ella had been pregnant. Too far along for an abortion; not that she could have afforded one. Maybe she should have left Christian on someone's doorstep. Had him adopted. Except, how would she have known that he wouldn't get a father like hers? At least when Christian was with her, she knew that he was okay. She did the best she could.

Food for Christian came first. Crack second. It was hard, but Ella managed. Christian didn't know what she did for a living. She didn't let her pimp near him. She didn't use in front of him, kept everything drug-related away from him and was relatively clean most of the time she spend with him. He had a roof over his head, food, and a mother who loved him. No one hurt him.

She should have stayed off the drugs. That seemed like a no-brainer, but it wasn't. The drugs made her life bearable. Oh, there were lots of times when they made her feel like shit and got her into trouble, but they were also a big help. They numbed, blurred, erased. They alleviated, excited, energised. Without them, Ella doubted she would have made it this far. Living this life sober? Day in, day out: _this_? No, she didn't think she would have survived.

Her body and mind wrecked was still preferable to the alternative.

And now some random asshole who had paid for sex, but who instead wanted to save her – whatever the hell that meant - was telling her that she should 'stop making excuses.' As if life had presented her with the choice between a good life and the one she was living now and she'd gone: 'Gosh, being a prostitute sounds fun!' As if life wasn't a series of shitty choices. As if life was… _malleable_ and she possessed the power to change things.

Life had taught Ella what a hoax the American dream was. She had learned to accept defeat. Whatever happened to her happened. She was fine with it. All that mattered was protecting Christian.

'Why don't you just watch reality TV if you want to feel good about yourself? It's cheaper,' Ella bit at the John to shut him up. He held up his hands, startled by her outburst.

'Hey, don't get mad at me because your life sucks. It doesn't have to be your life.'

'You don't know the first thing about me or how I got here. Want to hear a true story? At the end of the hour, you get to forget about me, but I go home knowing that I'm going to have to do this again tomorrow and the day after that. I don't get to forget. This _is_ my life. Short of killing myself, I have no control over it because I don't have the means. And no one's coming to save me. Except people like you, who claim that they want to help me when all you really want to do is blame me for the situation I am in.'

The John left shortly after that. Ella felt foolish. She shouldn't have done that. He could have been a repeat customer and now he would probably never come back. Also, it was dangerous. Some Johns were mentally unstable and did not react well if you disagreed with them. Having her pimp near would not deter a crazy John from killing her or, worse, scarring her so that she would be of no use anymore.

(***)

That morning, when Ella came home, Christian was crying on the bedroom floor. She immediately hugged him to her.

'Sweetie, what's wrong?'

'I went to the bathroom in my dreams, but I peed for real,' Christian explained, hiccupping with sobs. She could feel it now. His pyjama pants were soaked and smelling.

'I made the bed dirty. I'm sorry,' he added. He was so ashamed that he didn't dare to look at her. On her knees, Ella took his chin into her left hand and gently turned his head until they were facing each other.

'It's not your fault, honey,' she said, drying his tears with the sleeve of her jacket. God, if someone would say that to me just once, she thought. But no one ever did.

And her son forgot about all the love she'd given him and how, even though she hadn't been able to keep him safe from harm in the end, she had tried her hardest.

The end.

(***)

Author's note: Heavily inspired by the song What would you do? by City High.


End file.
